Unscared by storms, unchanged in attitude.
Happy now was he, as a child at play,
For was not all around him bright and gay?
Alas that ruthless fate, with stroke so fell,
Should crush for ever souls that loved so well!

And now, and now, alas! alas! my tale
Drags heavily; my heart doth sink and fail:
To tell it well would need a spirit's wail.
Like matrons all, his mother sought to know
The history of her new-found daughter: Oh!
The bitter grief that such inquiries bring
Too often, and the gloom that they may fling
Upon a joyous prospect, fair and bright!
Why should they have the power to cloud such
light?

It was a tale eventful, vague and dim
As forms at eve, or faint, funereal hymn,
When darkness broods upon the earth all round,
And the thick air but seems l'obstruct the
sound.

A tale of mystery. The maiden's youth
Was unremembered, save for a faint truth,
Which lingered in her mind's recesses-and
Which flashed more fully on her in this land
Where things familiar compassed her or see-
med

So much to do so, that she almost deemed dream dispelled which haunted her till then,

The

The veil uplift, or torn.

66 Where, and when

tron cried.

Where wert thou born,-where? say," the ma

"In sooth, I know not," thus the blooming bride;

"But I have still imaginings of home,

From very childhood wont to me to come,
Even as spirits of air, or ocean deep,

And when they come I cannot choose but weep.
One is of a mother-mine, mayhap.

Oh! one
More like to thee than aught I've looked upon;-
A form that o'er my infant cradle hung
So fondly, and such mournful music sung
In aftertimes,-a melting strain, of love
Which flourish'd fair, till envious tongues had
strove,

And not in vain, to separate two souls
Entwined together as one.

A big tear rolls,

A scalding drop, adown the pallid cheek Of her who strongly strives, but may not speak

That ancient matron. The young bride went on Thus with her story.

"She would gaze upon

My childish countenance; and then anon Would kiss a mark I bore upon my breast,A full-blown rose by Nature's hand impressed,— 'Tis visible now;-and then she 'd sit and

weep

Over the couch whereon my brother's sleep
Was deep and still.

The matron's heart was clave, Even as the earth is for a new made grave; And down she sunk beneath the strife of mind, Even as an old tree 'fore the angry wind. The bride, meanwhile, her bosom's snow laid bare,

And shewed the mark which bloomed in beauty there,

Contrasting with the whiteness of the skin
Which lay all round, luxuriant,- -as is seen
The sun to tint the high and hoary peaks
O' the Alps, before his slumb'rous bed he

seeks.

"Thou art,-thou art my daughter!" shrieked the mother;

Thou art my child,-and Conrad is thy brother!
Oh God! oh God! why should I live to see
Such fearful thing shake all my faith in thee?
He is thy brother-yes, thy brother;-I
Mother!-your mother! Why did I not die?
Why not with my departed husband sleep,
Ere this dark day dawned on me?"

Death 'gan creep Through the young bride's pure blood,

reptiles pass,

as

Leaving their slime upon the shrinking grass; Her glance grew fix'd-her fair face pale-one

groan,

And her sweet soul had from its dwelling flown.

And that sad man, the bridegroom brother

oh !

That virtue's shield should not defend from

woe.

To see the good thus smitten, one might deem That all he hears of Heaven is but the dream Of some enthusiast! -What did that sad man When o'er his heart this icy current ran? When he beheld his late-loved bride, and

what?

His new found sister!-Oh the horrid thought!-
Bereft of life; a shade fell on his soul,
And straightways from his sight the world did
roll.

A moment on her prostrate form he gazed, Like one who dreaming walks and wakes amazed.

A moment, wildered, o'er her corpse he hung;
And a full tide of scalding tears, up wrung
From his heart's depths, upon it forth he
poured-

Upon the cold, cold corpse of his adored.—
A moment on the blue and smiling sky
He then upturned his wild and wandering eye,
As though communing with those things of air,
Which legends tell us ever linger there;
Then slowly forth, he from his dwelling sped,
And ere night lapsed was numbered with the
dead!

Thus perished they who, in that lonely tomb, Abode, and listened long the wild wind's boom: And yet slept soundly.

But why with their kind Rest they not? Say, the grave is surely blindAnd the dark mould which covers corpses in Presentsa front impenetrable to sin.

Alas! alas! the virtuous of our race,

Had thrust them rudely from their resting-place
In yonder churchyard-consecrated earth-
As though one clay to all did not give birth.
Oh hypocrites! And to this slimy shore
Consigned their cold remains for ever, ever-

more.

STOLZENFELS.

In the beginning of the fourteenth century, Stolzenfels, on the left bank of the Rhine, close by Coblenz, was one of the most formidable roɓber-fortresses on that river. It was then called

Die Stolze Veste-The Proud Fortress.

Long before that period, however, a young knight, named Ottmar, dwelt there, in honour and esteem. His only companion was a beloved sister, named Williswind, whose virtue as well as her beauty was the theme of every tongue from Cologne to Strasburg. They had a stately retinue, as beseemed their quality: and nothing was absent from their castle which could increase the pleasures known at that period, and in the state of society which then existed. Human happiness, however, is not of long duration in any case. Perhaps it is well it should not: for as the poet truly sings,

Spring would be but gloomy weather,

If we had nothing else but Spring."

A war broke out between the Prince Palatine of the Rhine and the Count of Julich: and both sovereigns bestirred themselves to obtain the advantage in it. Ottmar, who owed allegiance to the former as a feudatory, was summoned to his banner; and he set out for the camp of his liege lord, on the other side of the river, leaving the fair Williswind alone in Stolzenfels, protected only by some faithful servants of their father. It was a trying thing for one so young and so beau